Shrine of Stars by Paul J. McAuley

Author:Paul J. McAuley [McAuley, Paul J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0380975173
Publisher: Eos
Published: 2000-09-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen: Slaves

“They may be a mighty people,” Pandaras said, “but they must like a snug house. Even I would find one of those huts cramped.”

He stood beside Yama at the edge of the forest, looking across the valley which stretched away on either side, a wide flat grassland studded with little villages that were linked by narrow red paths running beside ditches of green water, each village a cluster of mud-walled huts and strips of cultivated land enclosed by thorn hedges.

“I don’t like the look of it,” Pandaras added. “See how thick and tall the hedges are. These people must have fearsome enemies. Surely now is the time to call on something that will take us far from here.”

“That would be too dangerous,” Yama said. “Prefect Corin may have survived the fall of the garden, and he must not know where I am.”

In fact, there were very few machines here—fewer than Yama had ever known in a world where innumerable machines sped everywhere on unfathomable errands; not a tree might fall in the most remote forest without a witness.

“I don’t see how he could have survived,” Pandaras said. “I’d like to think it possible, because that would mean poor Tibor might have survived too. Forgive me for my presumption, master, but you cannot live in hiding forever. You cannot waste your gift.”

“Do not speak of what you do not know,” Yama said sharply.

“I know a bad feeling when I get one,” the boy said. “Look at our friends. It’s as if they’re going to their doom.”

It was early in the morning, with the sun only just clear of the peaks of the Rimwall Mountains. The forest folk had risen before dawn, and had been uncharacteristically subdued as they walked the last two leagues to the edge of the forest above the valley where their masters, the Mighty People, lived. Now they were removing the flowers and quills and feathers with which they had adorned their squat bodies, scrubbing away patterns of mud and pigments with bunches of wet grasses, combing out mud which had stiffened their coarse hair in ornamental spikes. They had walked naked through the forest; now they took loincloths from pouches and packs and stepped into them. Their torcs had been carefully wrapped up in oilcloth, and buried on a rocky point beneath a flat slab of sandstone.

The forest folk lined up, shivering in the chill gray air. Their chief, Yoi Sendar, went from one to the next, checking that every trace of adornment had been removed. When he reached Yama and Pandaras, he said formally, “Below is the home of the family of Mighty People which owns us. We go to them with our gifts from the forest. You do not have to come with us, my friends. We have enjoyed your stories and lies and boasts in the forest, but we take up a different life now.”

“I need to find the temple,” Yama said.

Yoi Sendar shook his massive, ugly head from side to side. It meant yes.

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